Childhood Drama: The Life Of Joshua Lyman
by modestlobster
Summary: Josh's life, Josh's POV. "I promise that as soon as you’re done reading, I’ll send you a sympathy card and a fruit basket."
1. Part 1

  
  
Hi. Yah, I'm the 'Joshua Lyman' from the title. Most people just call me Josh (with the exceptions of my mother, when she's angry, and a certain co-worker, when she either can't resist me or is angry with me, though it's hard to tell which is which oftentimes). For the next couple of pages or so, you're going to be reading about - don't try too hard at guessing this one - my childhood. I promise that as soon as you're done reading, I'll send you a sympathy card and a fruit basket. Ok, maybe the story of my life isn't that bad. Maybe.   
  
Anyway, to get on with it... Let's see. First off, I'd like to say that the title of this should probably be 'Childhood Trauma'. The word drama - to me - means a few tense moments supported by long, drawn-out minor musical chords with some crying immediately followed by some good-natured, wholesome fun and happiness and about 18 Emmy nominations. Trauma is a whole other story. This is that whole other story:   
  
Ok, so I grew up in Connecticut. It's a nice state although tiny and easy to lose. I once knew this woman who swore by the 'good book' that Connecticut existed somewhere off near Arizona and New Mexico. I don't blame her because, by my estimation, and the help of my good friends over at World Book Encyclopedia, 1989 edition, Book 20 (U-V), page 115, Connecticut is about three-eighths of an inch by two-eighths. (And for my good friends in the rest of the civilized world, if you're reading this, that's about 10 mm by 6 mm. I really do not know why we don't just convert to the Metric System. It's easier than measuring with our feet.) The state itself is a very pleasant place to live and everything, but I think that, in some aspects, growing up could have been better. For example, when you first start school you learn to spell your name and your parents' names and your state's name and things like that. Connecticut is no cherry pie when compared to 'Josh'. I quickly became envious of kids from Iowa, Ohio, and Utah who only had to learn four letters. The founders of this country must have been severely intoxicated when they came up with state names like Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Mississippi, with all those letters - many of which are doubled just to throw everyone off. I know how the kids in those states felt when they learned that they had been screwed over in the state name department. I was in the same boat with the same hole surrounded by the same shark-and-electric-eel-infested waters. Basically, I rue the day that mankind decided to create written language. But then, since it is, thus far, impossible to go back and prevent humans from learning to write, we have to acknowledge the secretaries and personal assistants who take care of all that annoying stuff for us. But I still hate spelling.   
  
Needless to say, spelling wasn't my only unfavorable impression of school, but it's not like I was always picked last for kickball or anything. Actually, I was king of the friends I had, unless we were playing 'King of the Mountain' in which case my lean frame was fairly easy to dethrone from any monumental dirt mound. One day in particular really stands out in my memory. It was one of those defining points in life that influences how a person turns out. I would like to take a brief moment to recognize how much my life sounds like an archetypical children's coming-of-age novel (with, perhaps, more whining) and to say that, to tell you the truth, it was pretty much all like that. Thus is the saga of Josh - a biography that, if written, would only appeal to the 8-12 year old demographic. And now that you've been duly warned, I continue. So, this one day, I had apparently infuriated someone beyond their limit (which I now consider part of my job description). Myself and the aggravated youth, as boys would do, were going to settle this 'after school' and probably 'by the swings' or, even more ominously, 'near the slide'. I refer back to the subject of my then-lanky frame, which is evidenced today by my now-lanky frame, to point out that the odds against me were about twice my body weight. Still, I met them: four against one, four against me. It was hardly fair. It wasn't fair at all. They were real blockheads who probably traveled in a group so they wouldn't get lost or forget what they were supposed to be doing (though they probably ended up at the wrong places at the wrong times anyway). But they were still very large, enormous blockheads. And I was a very tiny, minuscule shrimp. I didn't want to fight them. I didn't want them to fight me. That was only wishful thinking.   
  
The leader of the group - the only one I had actually ticked off - approached me further. I could tell you his name, but I'll keep it anonymous just in case somewhere, somehow he reads this. I wouldn't want him to get mad at me for labeling him a brainless, slime-filled, incompetent goon whose head you could hardly distinguish from a rock on account of the fact that both were equally dense. I wouldn't want any hard feelings between us because I'm saying that I know he's probably in some dead-end, burger-flipping job while I work for the President of the United States. I'm just taking this precaution of keeping his name anonymous on the off chance that I'm wrong with my predictions. But I'm not.   
  
So, we began to fight - a real epic little battle. I'm talking Homer's Iliad and Odyssey kind of stuff. We rolled around some, and I think I gave him a nice blow to the jaw, which he followed up with forcefully kicking me in the stomach. He stood up while I was trying to regain any semblance of breathing and kicked the ground to coat me with a traditional layer of dirt. 'Traditional' of the first man standing in any fight. I pulled myself up and, though he looked just about as bad as I did, he still gave me the impression that he wanted to break several of my limbs, or shove my face in the mud, or stomp on the cookies I had made for the bake sale. But I never gave him the chance. I walked away before he got the opportunity to say anything. Sometimes I regret doing that - doing the sane thing. It's almost as if it was harder to grow up because I never had to come home and press a frozen slab of meat to my eye to decrease the swelling. Maybe that's where manhood comes from - pounds of frozen steak from your parents' freezer - and it enters your body through your eye.   
That was a Friday, I remember, the day I disobeyed that instinctive, driving force that urges guys to fight for no real reason except for the sake of fighting. By Monday, I wanted to reclaim my ancestral edge and my nonexistent reputation. Ironically, and coincidentally, and unexpectedly, and unfortunately (or fortunately - which ever way you look at it), my adversary moved that weekend. I was his 'going-away' beating. Some honor. Now, this may not seem too traumatic of an event, but it was, as I said earlier, one of those defining points in my life. I wanted my meat.   
In later years, the goons of my 'enemy' became 'friendly acquaintances' of mine. We really ended up having nothing against one another and so I gained a nice sense of security that you only get from 6-foot tall, 200 pound, football-playing slackers. Still, I never got to finish that fight. If the opportunity arises again, I probably won't seize it - I'm just not a fighter by nature. I'm the 'gatherer' part of 'hunter-gatherer'. I'm good at gathering things. You should see my collection of paper clips. On the other hand, if we meet again and he takes the opportunity to throw a punch then I will finish what was started. I've got the steaks in my freezer just in case.   
  
I guess I should quit beating around the bush of school woes because I never really hated it. I'm a graduate of Harvard and Yale and a Fulbright scholar after all. You never go to schools like those if you hate learning and despise being taught. This next part might be kind of sad, a little bit, I think. It's about my sister's death. I'm telling you that right from the start in case you're the kind of person who cries at weddings or cries when you get an A on a term paper or cries when your carnival-prize goldfish dies or cries when you see the commercials that try to encourage you to sponsor a starving or homeless child. There is nothing wrong with you if you are one of these people but I want you to know that this will not be a happy section. If you get emotional very easily you might want to skip it or at least find some tissues or something. Ok, well, if you're still reading, I'll give you a little background on my sister.   
  
Her name was Joan, but everyone called her Joanie. She was eight years older than me. She always kept her black hair shoulder-length and she always joked around and made people smile. When I was little, I wanted to be exactly like her. Well, except for the whole weird and complicated underwear part which kind of scared me sometimes (and it still kind of scares me, but I won't go into that). She was always a nice person even when her annoying younger brother kept bothering her and her friends. All she would do was smile and quietly find something else for him to do. She never yelled. She wasn't incapable of being angry, but even when she was, she never yelled. She did cry sometimes, too. She'd go in her room, lay down, and just cry - having thought of some injustice. She never cried to get her way with our parents or anything and often she wasn't crying about her own state of affairs but about those of others. I'd come in to her darkened room and walk over to her tall bed and ask, "Joanie? Up?" in my voice that was three octaves higher than Mickey Mouse's. She'd always relent and pick me up and set me down on her bed. And she'd cry and tell me that another one of her friend's boyfriends was being a real jerk but her friend wouldn't or couldn't leave him. Or she'd tell me that one of her guy friends had come to school drunk and she had ended up sitting on the floor of the mens' room listening to him get sick. When she cried, that was the only time you knew that she wasn't living as innocently as she pretended to be. She had seen a little bit of the real world and that was enough for her.   
Joanie was always so smart and she would share that knowledge with me. Sometimes, just for fun, I'd sit with her while she was sprawled all over the floor doing her homework and I'd ask her about what she was working on. She'd explain it thoroughly though she knew it didn't make sense to me at the time. It was always fun though. I especially liked when she was working on science because I'd find the part of the book about reproduction (it's a skill that all children have). I'd ask her about it just to see her ears turn red.   
  
Her life was always so interesting to me. I remember on Hanukkah we always opened gifts from oldest to youngest. My parents practically had to force me to open my present each night on account of the fact that I was always engrossed with what Joanie had gotten right before it was my turn. One year, on the last of the eight days, she got this necklace with three diamonds, two rubies, and two sapphires. She loved it and I could have sat there just watching her catch the light with it, making it shimmer and cast specks of light onto the walls. I would have sat there doing that very thing if my parents hadn't interfered. I got a bike that year - which was the next best thing to the pony which was the top of my list. It certainly beat the socks that I had gotten on the other seven days. I distinctly remember that when she finally put it on, the necklace gave her this glow. She wore it everyday since then and tried to make sure it was polished every week. That was her last Hanukkah.   
  



	2. Part 2

  
  
It was January 27th. I spent that fourth Sunday morning of the new year sleeping. I used that fourth Sunday afternoon of the year to teach plastic army men how to swim in the bathtub and how to carry out reconnaissance missions on the terrain of the bathroom tile. On the evening of that January 27th, my parents went out to dinner with an aunt and uncle of mine. On the evening of January 27th my sister was at home watching me while our parents were out. It was a Sunday night and we both had school the next day, so we both planned on staying up as late as possible without getting caught. We started off eating an equivalent of nine cups of pure granulated sugar for dinner. Then we sat down in front of the television to watch Godzilla, although we both agreed it was a little out of season in mid winter. I thought it would be a good night to have popcorn and convinced Joanie to take some out of her private stash hidden in her room. She went into the kitchen which was adjacent to the den and clanged some pots around and rummaged through some cabinets and drawers.   
"Josh, do you know where Mom put-"   
"Two drawers up and to the right."   
I didn't even have to look away from Godzilla's ravaging of Tokyo to tell her where anything was; it was part of my job to know where everything in the house was at any given time of the day, and I knew Joanie well enough that I even knew what it was that she would be asking for depending on the given moment and her location in the house. Little boys know those kinds of things. And that's why big boys don't need clean houses. As long as we know where everything is, we're fine.   
"Two up and also two to the right, or just two up and one to the right?"   
"Two up, one right."   
"I'm still not finding-"   
"Your other right."   
"Oh."   
"That's another point for Joshua Lyman, King of the World."   
Kids tend to embellish situations and be a little pompous. I, on the other hand, was always very modest - I really should have gotten like five points for that.   
"It's not like we're keeping score!"   
"You're just saying that because you're losing."   
"That's not true."   
"It is, too."   
"It is not, but to change the subject, what's this alcohol doing in here?"   
"I guess I forgot to put it away when Mom used it earlier."   
"Why was she using it in here?"   
"There's more light or something."   
"Well, yeah, but why did she need to use it?"   
"I was saving my paratroopers from the tree out front and I cut myself. Mom said it'll leave a huge scar. Want to see it Joanie?"   
"Maybe later. Think you can put it away?"   
"I'll put in away later."   
"The top's not on very well."   
"Ok."   
"Want anything on the pop- Ow!"   
Joanie ran out of the kitchen and a couple things clattered to the ground. She went into the bathroom and turned the faucet on.   
"Joanie, what happened?"   
"I burned my hand."   
There was a chorus of "Ow!"s from her. There was a roar and cries from the television. There was a strange hiss from the other room. I saw in the reflection on the TV an odd light.   
Peering over the back of the couch, I whispered, "Joanie."   
"What Josh? I can't really hear you."   
"Joanie, I think there's a fire."   
"What?"   
I could hear the confusion in her voice.   
"Oh Josh, it's just a movie. Japan will be okay."   
"No Joanie, there's a fire."   
She came out then and looked at me. I looked at the kitchen. She looked with me.   
"Holy shoot..." She whispered.   
She said things like that all the time as an alternative to cursing.   
"Okay, okay, okay... Come on Josh."   
Her choice of words that night was the only evidence of panic that I could sense in her. Her actions were very level-headed. She realized that the door leading to the living room from the den was the only other way to get to the front door from that part of the house besides the kitchen. We both knew that that door had been stuck for years. But trivial matters don't distract Lyman women. She forced the lock open. It had been locked awhile ago as added security when I was still afraid of monsters and had never been unlocked since then even after I outgrew my fears. Joanie shoved at the door and it finally gave way. I ran out past her to the front door to unlock it. She caught hold of the door, sank to the floor, and looked at me upset and flushed from the heat.   
"Josh, go outside and run out to the road. Do not come back near the house, okay? I'll be out there with you in a few minutes, okay Josh?"   
As scared as I was because she was saying 'Okay.' too many times for the situation to ever be 'okay', I nodded.   
"Go to the road, okay? I'll come find you in a few minutes."   
She hugged me and pushed me out the front door. And I ran, having just seen flames licking the dining room wallpaper and smoke billowing up to the ceiling. My sister, with her back turned to the ensuing devastation, had closed the door on me. So I ran with my legs not keeping up with the pace my brain wanted to go. I reached the road and sat on the crumbling asphalt. The grass was cold and wet. And I waited. But it was impossible to force myself to wait. To a child, any time over half a minute is a long time, and I was no exception. I heeded my sister's warning - I wouldn't go back near the house, so I went to our neighbor across the street and knocked on her door. A light came on inside and the door opened slowly.   
"Joshua Lyman, what are you doing here, dear?"   
"Grammy, Joanie said she would come out, but she hasn't yet."   
"Where are your parents, dear?"   
"Out having dinner."   
She blinked for a moment, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "What do you mean, 'She hasn't come out yet'?"   
"There's a fire in my house, Grammy."   
"Oh dear, I'll call the fire station." She went back inside to call.   
She was this nice old lady who always called everyone by their first and last names when she addressed them. My mother was friends with her just like everyone else's mom and all the kids would call her Grammy. She wasn't anyone's grandmother, so she was everyone's. Grammy came back out and sat with me on her doorstep. We waited for the sirens.   
They came.   
  
Smoke was coming out of our chimney and it would have been inviting if the front windows hadn't been glowing a lurid orange behind the blinds. When they arrived, some firemen went up to the house, a few attached a hose to a fire hydrant, and a couple saw me and Grammy - the two loomed huge and ominous even from far away. They asked Grammy who we were and one knelt to talk to me when he found out that it was my house.   
"Is anyone still inside?"   
I nodded. "Joanie."   
"Who is Joanie?"   
"My sister."   
"Alright."   
I could see the heightened concern in his face. He wasn't there just to save a house anymore. He jogged back to the others and yelled at them to hurry, yelled that there was still a person inside. His partner stayed with us, planning to ask a few more questions, but he was stopped short by a loud noise that made everyone flinch. It sounded like a gunshot and as it echoed in the night, the man told us that the radiator probably exploded.   
Two pairs of headlights appeared down the road, soon showing the hesitations of the drivers to the scene before them. My mom left the car before my father had even stopped and ran over to me. She picked me up as my father joined us. My mother, ignoring the fireman who was trying to get her attention, spoke to me.   
"Honey, where's Joanie? Are you okay?"   
I pointed to the house and she started crying. She carried me over to my dad. My aunt, upon seeing us, began to cry too. My mom kissed me and finally relented to my relatives' offer of keeping me for the night. I walked away with Uncle Phillip and Aunt Hannah, and the last thing I heard as I got in their car was my dad asking about his little girl.  
  



	3. Part 3

  
  
My parents came early on Monday morning to pick me up. They had brought me some clothes and were going to take me to school. They looked so tired and it wasn't because it was six in the morning. I had seen their six-o-clock-in-the-morning faces most of my life. This was the kind of tired that I would've associated with spending an evening futilely running away from lifeforce-draining space things.   
Of course now I would associate the look with being up all night watching your house burn...   
  
The car ride to school was silent. I was scared to ask what my parents were scared to answer. So far as I knew, only my parents, aunt, uncle, me, and my sister knew what happened. And all I knew was that there was something wrong with my sister because she never missed a day of school. But I couldn't ask. I was just a child. I still wasn't sure what had happened last night. Where was my sister? I didn't know if it was a dream. If it was, Joanie would be in the car and I wouldn't have spent last night coughing from the smoke in my lungs and hearing the radiator explode in every creak of the floorboards as my aunt's house settled. So I guess it wasn't a dream.   
  
School was eerily normal. The red crayons colored out red. Connecticut was still part of the continental United States. One plus one equaled three, but only because I wasn't so good at math then.   
And then it ended. And Joanie wasn't there to wait for mom with me.   
My mother still came, but she seemed stuck somewhere else in her mind. So we waited a few minutes. When we pulled away from school, she told me that Joanie was at the hospital. I wanted to see her. So she took me.   
  
I had only been at the hospital probably three times before that. In chronological order it would have been when I was born, when I got really sick after eating a praying mantis, and when my dad threw his back out which was partially my fault, so I felt obligated to go. I really just remember the ugliness of the hospital. It's a very intimidating atmosphere. The whites are too white. The lights glare too much. The nurses can be too cheerful and the patients can be too surly. The people I wouldn't mind so much, just the whiteness and how you can feel the sickness through the walls. You would sort of get used to it after a little bit, so I can understand how people can work there.   
When we got there, we went down to the cafeteria to buy a drink, some food. Then we went to visit Joanie. She was in the part of the hospital where people nod sadly as you walk by.   
My mom took me to the room. My father was standing next to Joanie's bed holding her hand, but staring at the wall.   
"Noah..." My mother said gently.   
He turned around, surprised to see her, even more surprised to see me.   
"I thought we weren't going to... Not until..."   
"He wanted to come."   
They continued talking, and even though I knew I was center of their conversation, I ignored them. I walked up to my sister. Amidst the light and the white and the machines and everything in the room, she was so pretty, just sleeping there. If she was awake she probably would have been concerned that her hair was a mess. It was a fruitless conquest of hers because her hair was genetically untamable and she wouldn't accept that she looked fine no matter what her hair decided to do. It wasn't vanity. She just wanted her hair to look good.   
I finally realized that my parents were watching me in silence. I looked up at them. My mother told me to give Joanie a hug and say good-bye. I guess we'd come back tomorrow. I hugged my father too, and then Mom took me home.   
  
The fire hadn't really touched any of the bedrooms, but the rest of the house didn't fare too well. The neighbors had left casseroles and food on the front step and my mother smiled when she saw that. She pushed at the front door which swung open easily, partially unhinged from the firemen, and walked inside. There was a card table set up in the front room that she set all the stuff on. We got a few things together to stay at a hotel for the night.   
The room had a microwave, so we were set. My mom and I were impressed with the cooking skills of our neighbors. She made some phonecalls after that - to friends, family, and finally to the hospital. That last call started to make her voice waver. She hung the phone up and turned to me.   
"Josh... I think I need to go back to the hospital."   
I nodded, "Ok."   
She put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment.   
"Mom?"   
She composed herself and spoke again, "I... I don't want you to think I'm a bad mother. I love you so much. But I think I have to leave you here. But I need to go to the hospital."   
"Ok."   
"If I could bring you, I would."   
"Ok."   
"Oh Josh..."   
She started to cry a little then. That just kills a guy inside. Rips their insides right out. Even as a kid, it's so hard to take. I can't stand to see a woman, a girl, a lady - I can't stand to see them cry. It hurts. Because they shouldn't be crying or hurting. I always feel that it's somehow my fault when I can't protect even a woman I don't know from being hurt. So I hugged her.   
"I'll be fine." I thought I would be, at least.   
"I can't leave you here, but I can't take you."   
"I'll be fine."   
"Don't open the door for anyone."   
"I'll be fine, mom."   
"I'll call you from the hospital."   
"Ok. I'll be fine."   
"Go to bed at a decent time."   
"I'll be good."   
She smiled, "I know. I'll be back soon."   
"I know."   
"I really hate leaving you."   
"Mom..."   
She really didn't want to go. But she had to, and she finally did.   
  
Joanie died that night. The 28th of January. I don't mean to sound so casual. I don't know how else to write it though. My mother did call. She said that Joanie woke up for a little bit, she wished she had gotten to see me. She said she hoped to see me later. I fell asleep after the phone call. I woke up and my dad was sleeping next to me. He took me to school and told me on the way that she had died. It sort of seems harsh to do to a kid. But it wasn't. I kind of wanted to be at school so I could be with people and I could think or be distracted, whichever I wanted. My father talked to the teachers and everything and said I could call him if I wanted to leave. The only thing I really remember from that day at school was that some kid commented on hearing about the fire and how he heard that we lost our television set. I told him that I also lost my sister. His eyes got kind of wide then. I think that's how we became friends. Good old Dave.   
  
That's really all I have to say about Joanie, I guess. My parents told me she had been found in their bedroom unconscious and that the exposure to the fire had hurt her. There wasn't much anyone could do for her. The funeral was in February.   
Over the years, I never forgot her. I'd tell some people about her, others didn't know. 'Dying is a part of life, it's not anyone's fault.' I've been told that a few times and I know. Believe me, I know. I've seen death a few times in my life. Maybe more than a few times. I know it's part of life and it's no one's fault. Still, I rarely have popcorn anymore, and I always put the alcohol away when I'm done. Yes, I do feel a little guilty. She should have come outside with me. I know I was just a kid. We're all kids at some point. I understand that and I realize that I can't change things. I realize that I haven't visited her grave in a while. I really should. Tell her what her little brother has been up to. I hear it's good therapy.   
Oh, and she still wears her necklace. My mother had firemen on their hands and knees searching for it while the last of the fire was smoldering. Lyman women can be very persuasive.   
  
  
  
  
  
I'd like to thank my mom for her love and support and everything. Joanie, Dad... I miss you. Thanks to D.M. and T.Z. for the proofreading help and preventing me from making too big of an idiot of myself through my writing. I'll also thank my superiors because they allowed me to blow off at least two minutes a day to write this. I know I'll still have to make it up to them. I just ask that they don't come up with anything too heinous as compensation. Like footrubs or something. I'm probably just giving them ideas, so I had better stop. Big thanks to Aaron Sorkin. He's a bigger man than me and he's awesome and great and I promise not to make money off of the things I've borrowed from him. Thanks to myself for writing this and for not crying on the keyboard because then I probably would have had to buy a new one. And thanks to everyone who has read this for not telling everyone they know that sometimes I cry. Because I don't cry. Well, not very often. Really. Don't tell anyone. I can find out where you live. Seriously.   
  
Maybe I'll continue this later with some more recent events - like the shooting at Rosslyn or something. But you wouldn't want to hear about that...   
  



End file.
